I was writing up one of my Physics Labs, when some cadet started talking to me.
Young cadet: "Sgt. Liu?"
Me: "Yes, my child?"
Young cadet: "Do you have two girlfriends?"
Me: "No" (I continued typing. And then I start thinking about what he just said. Da fuq?)
And then I freeze mid-equation. I give the cadet a frown.
Me: "What do you mean by that?"
Young cadet: "One of your facebook pictures has you with two girls."
He was, of course, referring to that pic of Alpha-1 and Alpha-2 at one of our performances, where I photobombed their portrait.
Me: "That doesn't necessarily mean that they're my girlfriends. And having more than just one is wrong. Totally wrong."
Young cadet: "Ok"
And that got me thinking. Beyond the fact that he found one of my pictures from grade 9, this entire conversation was probably one of the weirdest I've ever had. Even with Howard. But that one thing lingered in my head: Is it wrong to have more than one girlfriend, if the two are totally alright with it?
Starting off, I would like to say that I have no experience with relationships. All my wisdom is derived from the experiences my friends had, along with my (limited) understanding of the inner workings of a juvenile. In mainstream western society, polygamy is outlawed. Now, I know there is a difference between marriage and courtship, and I'm not mistaking one for the other. We do, however, often base our relationships on the basis of someone we want to spend the rest of our lives with. Should I keep using the word "we"? Meh. Let's go on.
If we base our judgement of our mates with the notion of spending the rest of our lives with said mate, does the courting of two separate mates count as polygamy?
To be fair, those two mates are not bound to you financially and legally, by law (as per the definition of "dating".) So technically, you're just cheating on both partners, but they both know you're cheating on them and they're totally fine with it. That means all parties are not fully committed to the relation, thus it's not really a serious relationship. The system of the three partners is probably that for sex, and sex-related sex topics only.
It's been a while since I last thought about this topic (I started writing this on Wednesday night). So imma drop it. Also, I don't have wheels. Good day to you.
Saturday, 20 April 2013
Monday, 15 April 2013
Yeah, yeah, I know
I know this is an early brog post. I'd just like to say that "Peeniss" is probably the best name for a ship. Of all time. OF ALL TIME. I'd also like to say that Super Mario Galaxy has the best soundtrack of all time. Of all time. OF ALL TIME.
Oh, yeah, I got three more tanks on WoT. Also the COH2 beta. WOOOOOOOOOO
Oh, yeah, I got three more tanks on WoT. Also the COH2 beta. WOOOOOOOOOO
Saturday, 13 April 2013
For the first time this year, I stared at a blank screen and didn't know what to write. Well, I guess I could start off with a bit of World of Tanks updates...
This weekend, Wargaming.net is commemorating their second anniversary with double credit weekend for all tier 5 tanks, a day of free premium, along with five times the exp for the first victory of the day. Sounds pretty good, no? So I took advantage of this yesterday (SNOW DAY IN APRIL YAY) and got myself a new T6 tank (the, conveniently named, M6 tank). It's essentially the same thing as my T1 Heavy, just with more upgrades. They are exactly the same thing. As in the armour is the same, engines the same, armament the same, etc. So why did I spend a million credits on this thing? Because it leads to the bigger American heavies.
Great, now that I'm done writing that, I've forgotten what else to write. Maybe I should go with some cadet stuff...
Some time within the past five years of my cadet career, I slowly realized the level of education the average level one cadet receives. Now, since I'm in IB and I'm Asian, I could be a little biased in terms of standards. The rest of this story/rant could just be that prejudice coming in, and these standards could be passable for others. I remember during my first year of being a cadet, but this post is not about the experience itself; rather the intelligence of level ones.
There was a kid who always arrived in the baggiest sweater and pants you could buy (something tells me he's wearing XXL or something of the like), with his pants literally dragging on the floor (well, not really. But it's really damn close to the floor). He spends a quarter of his time talking back to the officers and sergeants, a quarter of the time wheeling the chicks in level one, and the last half smoking in the boy's washroom. Keep in mind that the average level one cadet was twelve or thirteen years old (with the exception of Echo... He's an exception, but that's another story). This kid was no exception, so one does wonder why this level one cadet is smoking in the boy's washroom. He's hardly a teenager.
Ok so that was just the first example. Throughout my cadet career, I've seen numerous dudes bear marching. Girls not so much (female intelligence superiority? Nawww...) What is bear marching, you say? It's when you walk, but you swing your arms with the same foot that you step with. Instead of alternating your step with your arm (e.g. stepping in with left foot, swinging right arm), you step with the same arm (e.g. stepping with left foot, swinging with left foot). Try it. It's unnatural. Walking is one of the fundamentals of mobility, and yet there are cadets who do drill every week, but cannot walk properly. I've sometimes attributed it to the stress of "doing it right", but these kids concentrate too hard. It's walking. Not a level four math question.
And then there are the kids that turn the wrong way when told to turn. Again, I often attribute this to stress (I once did it... BUT ONLY ONCE). But then the same kids keep doing the same thing, which is what gets me every time. You tell them "turn right when I tell you to do a right turn", and they do so for the first couple times. The moment you trick them (e.g. "left TURN! By the left quick MARCH! HALT! advance right TURN") they fall over.
Note: those two examples were probably not based on intelligence; rather coordination between the senses. Here's one that's unexplainable: the inability to write a letter with the correct punctuation, spelling, and grammar. I'm not talking Pulitzer-level letterwriting; rather more informal letters, like those to your grandparents. It's quite common for me to see at least one of those three errors on a random level one's (Actually, forget level one. Let's go with ALL cadet levels) piece of writing. These aren't complex errors either. It's not something excusable like "recieve" or "color"... Well maybe not color, but still. No, these errors are along the lines of "exporiance"or something that I'd expect from an 8 year old.
Alright, rant's over. Partially because I'm playing WOT again. Goodbye.
This weekend, Wargaming.net is commemorating their second anniversary with double credit weekend for all tier 5 tanks, a day of free premium, along with five times the exp for the first victory of the day. Sounds pretty good, no? So I took advantage of this yesterday (SNOW DAY IN APRIL YAY) and got myself a new T6 tank (the, conveniently named, M6 tank). It's essentially the same thing as my T1 Heavy, just with more upgrades. They are exactly the same thing. As in the armour is the same, engines the same, armament the same, etc. So why did I spend a million credits on this thing? Because it leads to the bigger American heavies.
Great, now that I'm done writing that, I've forgotten what else to write. Maybe I should go with some cadet stuff...
Some time within the past five years of my cadet career, I slowly realized the level of education the average level one cadet receives. Now, since I'm in IB and I'm Asian, I could be a little biased in terms of standards. The rest of this story/rant could just be that prejudice coming in, and these standards could be passable for others. I remember during my first year of being a cadet, but this post is not about the experience itself; rather the intelligence of level ones.
There was a kid who always arrived in the baggiest sweater and pants you could buy (something tells me he's wearing XXL or something of the like), with his pants literally dragging on the floor (well, not really. But it's really damn close to the floor). He spends a quarter of his time talking back to the officers and sergeants, a quarter of the time wheeling the chicks in level one, and the last half smoking in the boy's washroom. Keep in mind that the average level one cadet was twelve or thirteen years old (with the exception of Echo... He's an exception, but that's another story). This kid was no exception, so one does wonder why this level one cadet is smoking in the boy's washroom. He's hardly a teenager.
Ok so that was just the first example. Throughout my cadet career, I've seen numerous dudes bear marching. Girls not so much (female intelligence superiority? Nawww...) What is bear marching, you say? It's when you walk, but you swing your arms with the same foot that you step with. Instead of alternating your step with your arm (e.g. stepping in with left foot, swinging right arm), you step with the same arm (e.g. stepping with left foot, swinging with left foot). Try it. It's unnatural. Walking is one of the fundamentals of mobility, and yet there are cadets who do drill every week, but cannot walk properly. I've sometimes attributed it to the stress of "doing it right", but these kids concentrate too hard. It's walking. Not a level four math question.
And then there are the kids that turn the wrong way when told to turn. Again, I often attribute this to stress (I once did it... BUT ONLY ONCE). But then the same kids keep doing the same thing, which is what gets me every time. You tell them "turn right when I tell you to do a right turn", and they do so for the first couple times. The moment you trick them (e.g. "left TURN! By the left quick MARCH! HALT! advance right TURN") they fall over.
Note: those two examples were probably not based on intelligence; rather coordination between the senses. Here's one that's unexplainable: the inability to write a letter with the correct punctuation, spelling, and grammar. I'm not talking Pulitzer-level letterwriting; rather more informal letters, like those to your grandparents. It's quite common for me to see at least one of those three errors on a random level one's (Actually, forget level one. Let's go with ALL cadet levels) piece of writing. These aren't complex errors either. It's not something excusable like "recieve" or "color"... Well maybe not color, but still. No, these errors are along the lines of "exporiance"or something that I'd expect from an 8 year old.
Alright, rant's over. Partially because I'm playing WOT again. Goodbye.
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Just another day
I've decided to dramatize one of my old camp stories to kickstart my imagination. On another note, I just finished writing up Act 1!! So excited :D
"Dude, get the hell up. We're leaving in about 5 mikes."
Those were the first words uttered bat the start of Operation Midnight Laundry. After hours of tedious planning, our operation had no room for failure. It was either Oscar Mike, or stand down. Wiser operators would have stood down, and waited for daylight before moving out. Unfortunately, we were not those kind of people. See, our graduation parade was in less than ten hours from H-Hour, and we needed all our shit before then. Why ten hours before then? That information's classified. I cannot tell you.
There was a strong distrust between the Frenchies and the Anglos on base. Each joint exercise always turned into a mini Plains of Abraham. Though neither side won more often, we still perceived our own side as superior to the other. This rivalry extended beyond just exercises. Washing machines, washrooms, bivouac sites, food, supplies; everything was a competition. The Anglos shared with the Anglos. The Frenchies shared with the Frenchies. Tensions reached a climax when our biathlon team beat their top team by over ten minutes. And in a way, I just explained why we needed our shit before daybreak.
We started planning for the operation two days before, as a contingency plan. Sierra had come up to me and asked "what the fuck do we do if one of them French gypsies jack our shit?" Knowing full well that no one gets near my impeccable dress shirt and pants, I immediately contacted Tango to initiate the procedures that led up to that fateful night. By the end of the day, we had come up with the plan. We kept it dark from higher up for obvious reasons, and we needed to "skillfully obtain" some pieces of equipment to help us facilitate this kind of mission. Obviously, we thought we weren't ever going to need to follow this plan, but the next day showed the kind of OpFor we were up against.
The next day (Tuesday, I believe), we were given close to no time to prepare our uniforms. We had spent the whole day marching up and down the base, and performing the necessary drill over and over again to minimize screwups during the graduation parade. Rehearsals were held after every chow we had. The Herc, a giant warehouse that served as a sort of "common room" and as a canteen, was closed "for logistic purposes"-but they still sold you shoe polish and cloths if you asked. Basically, command was trying to tell us to quit stalling and get the hell to work.
This message was heeded by everyone. Remember when I wrote about the rivalry for the washing machines? It hit its peak that day, when everyone wanted to get hold of one. This created long-ass lines of Frenchies and Anglos fighting for a spot to wash their clothes. I'm pretty sure every wash was way over the load limit. This coupled with the intense drilling resulted in us being sweat stained uniforms the day before the final parade unable to wash our uniforms for the whole day. My fireteam (Sierra and Tango) managed to secure a washing machine for our own usage some time around twenty fourty five hours. Note: that was just the washing machine. Not the dryer. The washing. Machine.
How was that a bad thing? Well, each load takes about thirty to fourty mikes to go through the entire process, depending on your load. Us being sweaty teenage dudes, we had sackloads of laundry to do. Consistent tumbling of the washing machines resulted in us sitting on top of them. Since sitting around for fourty minutes was a huge waste of time for us, we brought in our boots to polish up (even though it's prohibited... Why? I have no idea).
Some time around twentyone twenty hours, some French flight sergeant walks in and tells us to scram. Feigning ignorance of the French language, we just ignored him. Seeing how he's unable to kick us out, he took one of Sierra's boot and threw it out the door onto the gritty pavement (what a dick). I could see Sierra fuming underneath, since he could not do anything about it without being subjected to a court marshal, demoted, and subsequently unable to graduate. He told us to put our stuff in the dryer immediately, as he went outside with the FSGT to retrieve his boot.
We soon found out that none of the driers were empty. So we changed it. Finding a dryer with a French name tag, we immediately switched out the contents with our now-empty washing machine. Both machines were cranked up to the top, and they started whirring as we walked away, feeling only slightly justified. That French kid's going to wake up and find all his crap soaked in ice cold water. Our mission was now to make sure our machine keeps working, and keep the French dude from finding out.
And now we're back at where we started. We immediately swung into our contingency plan. Everyone knew each others' roles like the bodies of our favourite porn stars. Equipment was distributed throughout the fireteam. Our barrack wished us luck, as we told them our plan. Oh, I had forgotten to mention that the dryer we had decided to use were on the other side of the damn base.
We managed to sneak to within a building or two of the washing machine area. There were no lights on, but luckily the moonlight was able to shine through the windows. On the way there, we had seen about two or three guys walking around. I'm not quite sure if they were MPs, or if they were just Frenchies that just drank too much water. Either way, they didn't see us. Things were looking great, when Tango discovered the door was locked. Up until this point, we had never realized this possibility. Fortunately for us, the windows were open. Unfortunately for us, the windows were like New York's rent rates: too damn high. What else could we do but to push Sierra (the smallest of us) through that opening? As we pushed him through, we heard a whole lotta commotion. Apparently he tumbled and almost cracked his head open on one of the dryers. We prayed for sweet Jesus, Buddha, Athe, and any deity out there that nobody heard the racket Sierra made.
As we cleaned house, I heard footsteps approaching our position. Our fireteam quickly dispersed, just as the Sergeant opened up the door. In an attempt to bluff us, he said (in his worst English accent ever) "'eeh, cahdetts. I kno you arr een heer". Taking a short stroll around the area, looking through each crevice and spot on the ground, he failed to find us. I was hiding under the cupboard of the sink, Tango was hiding in the lost and found pile disguised as a pillow, and Sierra was hiding in a dryer. Now to his credit, even I would not have looked in a dryer. The other places? Pretty obvious hiding spots, if I may say so myself. I was slightly surprised he didn't see us.
After the Sergeant left, we still waited a few minutes to make sure he's really gone. We quickly took our stuff and walked as calmly out of the laundry room as possible. As we were walking, we encountered some guys dressed in the uniform of a Basic cadet. Trying to bluff them, we questioned them on why they were out so late. Turns out they were WO2s, on patrol. We were far way enough to book it. The urban environment allowed us to lose them quickly. On returning back to our barrack, Sierra had this brilliant idea of knocking on all the barrack doors within the general area. Shitting bricks, we ran back inside as quickly as we could, to the applause of the entire barrack.
We thought we were as quiet as a mouse in a sound proof room. November was kind enough to tell us that they were able to hear Sierra falling through the window onto the washing machine (which was on the other side of the base). I went straight to my bunk amid the hand shaking, picture taking, and news reporting by the other members of 404 Barracks. I watched as Sierra recounted the tale, and jumped into his bed only to find operator Juliet in his bed.
Shortly afterward, a group of suspiciously-clad Basic cadets entered our barrack. Everyone kept quiet until they left. High fives went around once more.
"Dude, get the hell up. We're leaving in about 5 mikes."
Those were the first words uttered bat the start of Operation Midnight Laundry. After hours of tedious planning, our operation had no room for failure. It was either Oscar Mike, or stand down. Wiser operators would have stood down, and waited for daylight before moving out. Unfortunately, we were not those kind of people. See, our graduation parade was in less than ten hours from H-Hour, and we needed all our shit before then. Why ten hours before then? That information's classified. I cannot tell you.
There was a strong distrust between the Frenchies and the Anglos on base. Each joint exercise always turned into a mini Plains of Abraham. Though neither side won more often, we still perceived our own side as superior to the other. This rivalry extended beyond just exercises. Washing machines, washrooms, bivouac sites, food, supplies; everything was a competition. The Anglos shared with the Anglos. The Frenchies shared with the Frenchies. Tensions reached a climax when our biathlon team beat their top team by over ten minutes. And in a way, I just explained why we needed our shit before daybreak.
We started planning for the operation two days before, as a contingency plan. Sierra had come up to me and asked "what the fuck do we do if one of them French gypsies jack our shit?" Knowing full well that no one gets near my impeccable dress shirt and pants, I immediately contacted Tango to initiate the procedures that led up to that fateful night. By the end of the day, we had come up with the plan. We kept it dark from higher up for obvious reasons, and we needed to "skillfully obtain" some pieces of equipment to help us facilitate this kind of mission. Obviously, we thought we weren't ever going to need to follow this plan, but the next day showed the kind of OpFor we were up against.
The next day (Tuesday, I believe), we were given close to no time to prepare our uniforms. We had spent the whole day marching up and down the base, and performing the necessary drill over and over again to minimize screwups during the graduation parade. Rehearsals were held after every chow we had. The Herc, a giant warehouse that served as a sort of "common room" and as a canteen, was closed "for logistic purposes"-but they still sold you shoe polish and cloths if you asked. Basically, command was trying to tell us to quit stalling and get the hell to work.
This message was heeded by everyone. Remember when I wrote about the rivalry for the washing machines? It hit its peak that day, when everyone wanted to get hold of one. This created long-ass lines of Frenchies and Anglos fighting for a spot to wash their clothes. I'm pretty sure every wash was way over the load limit. This coupled with the intense drilling resulted in us being sweat stained uniforms the day before the final parade unable to wash our uniforms for the whole day. My fireteam (Sierra and Tango) managed to secure a washing machine for our own usage some time around twenty fourty five hours. Note: that was just the washing machine. Not the dryer. The washing. Machine.
How was that a bad thing? Well, each load takes about thirty to fourty mikes to go through the entire process, depending on your load. Us being sweaty teenage dudes, we had sackloads of laundry to do. Consistent tumbling of the washing machines resulted in us sitting on top of them. Since sitting around for fourty minutes was a huge waste of time for us, we brought in our boots to polish up (even though it's prohibited... Why? I have no idea).
Some time around twentyone twenty hours, some French flight sergeant walks in and tells us to scram. Feigning ignorance of the French language, we just ignored him. Seeing how he's unable to kick us out, he took one of Sierra's boot and threw it out the door onto the gritty pavement (what a dick). I could see Sierra fuming underneath, since he could not do anything about it without being subjected to a court marshal, demoted, and subsequently unable to graduate. He told us to put our stuff in the dryer immediately, as he went outside with the FSGT to retrieve his boot.
We soon found out that none of the driers were empty. So we changed it. Finding a dryer with a French name tag, we immediately switched out the contents with our now-empty washing machine. Both machines were cranked up to the top, and they started whirring as we walked away, feeling only slightly justified. That French kid's going to wake up and find all his crap soaked in ice cold water. Our mission was now to make sure our machine keeps working, and keep the French dude from finding out.
And now we're back at where we started. We immediately swung into our contingency plan. Everyone knew each others' roles like the bodies of our favourite porn stars. Equipment was distributed throughout the fireteam. Our barrack wished us luck, as we told them our plan. Oh, I had forgotten to mention that the dryer we had decided to use were on the other side of the damn base.
 |
| A brief illustration of where the fuck we were. The distance is about a klick, give or take two hundred mikes. Number of buildings is not to scale. There were a fuckload. |
As we cleaned house, I heard footsteps approaching our position. Our fireteam quickly dispersed, just as the Sergeant opened up the door. In an attempt to bluff us, he said (in his worst English accent ever) "'eeh, cahdetts. I kno you arr een heer". Taking a short stroll around the area, looking through each crevice and spot on the ground, he failed to find us. I was hiding under the cupboard of the sink, Tango was hiding in the lost and found pile disguised as a pillow, and Sierra was hiding in a dryer. Now to his credit, even I would not have looked in a dryer. The other places? Pretty obvious hiding spots, if I may say so myself. I was slightly surprised he didn't see us.
After the Sergeant left, we still waited a few minutes to make sure he's really gone. We quickly took our stuff and walked as calmly out of the laundry room as possible. As we were walking, we encountered some guys dressed in the uniform of a Basic cadet. Trying to bluff them, we questioned them on why they were out so late. Turns out they were WO2s, on patrol. We were far way enough to book it. The urban environment allowed us to lose them quickly. On returning back to our barrack, Sierra had this brilliant idea of knocking on all the barrack doors within the general area. Shitting bricks, we ran back inside as quickly as we could, to the applause of the entire barrack.
We thought we were as quiet as a mouse in a sound proof room. November was kind enough to tell us that they were able to hear Sierra falling through the window onto the washing machine (which was on the other side of the base). I went straight to my bunk amid the hand shaking, picture taking, and news reporting by the other members of 404 Barracks. I watched as Sierra recounted the tale, and jumped into his bed only to find operator Juliet in his bed.
Shortly afterward, a group of suspiciously-clad Basic cadets entered our barrack. Everyone kept quiet until they left. High fives went around once more.
Saturday, 30 March 2013
A PSA To All Hackers
I promised to go back to my old writing style of connected nonsense. Well, I'm going to have to break that here for a bit, as I rant over hackers. If you don't understand a thing I'm saying, here's the TL;DR: Hackers suck.
Ookay, lets go. That's right, two "o"'s. Because I'm cool rike that. Recently, I was involved in a match of Conquest Domination in BFTree. Heh. Big fucking tree. Oops, profanity. I just stole the virginity of your angelic eyes. How did he do? Well, initially, the dude was doing crap. Going 3-11 within 5 minutes of the game. Oh, and while we're on topic, the dude's name is gordonwilliams56. Just in case an admin is reading this. Avoid this man at all costs (if he is a man at all). He was last seen on one of BBF's servers. The sensible players on the server had a nice chat about the dude. Judging by his noobiness, we assumed that he was a total noob (Captain Obvious was there, obviously). The match was fairly equal, with both sides roughly equal in terms of tickets (give or take 3 to 5 tickets per side, but that's to be expected). Then, all of a sudden, the bottom ranked player on the other team headshots me. Now, I was not very concerned with this yet, since he's still at the bottom of the list. I was starting to have suspicions, though, as people started asking "is this dude a hacker?" throughout the open channel. I didn't think much for the next 5 minutes, as the two sides were still fairly even. However, I did do constant scoreboard checks to make sure our marked man was only a false positive. If only that were the case. About 7 minutes later, and being headshotted again by the same dude, I knew something was up. The dude went balls out in hacking, and we finished the match in a disaster. The next match was coming up, so I decided to try as hard as I can to make his life miserable. I knew that smoke and suppression have no effect on the dude. What could I do? All I could do was to try to win in another method: capping flags. This worked initially, and throughout the middle half of the match. But the dude kept suppressing our team with his insane headshotting "skills". Luckily, I managed to kill him a number of times while he was reloading (the dude was too noob to press the "2" key to switch weapons... hehe). By the end of the game, he went 111-10. I rage quitted by this point.
Why would a person pay money to automate a game? Where's the fun in that? I'll just get bored after 5 minutes (after the novelty wears off). Seriously, if I can't play a game well, I either learn to play, or I quit the game completely. Why would you let a bot do something that you can accomplish yourself? Where's the fun in that? What's your sense of accomplishment, hacker? Is it your massively huge KDR? Or is it your insane killstreak? Neither of those things matter in Battlefield. Please go back to COD and may Athe strike you down with thunder.
So, rant over. Not really a rant, just an after actions report (AARP). I might do more of those for the future. Kinda like fanfic, except with military terms and stuff. Interested? Yes, no, toaster?
Ahh, so the phrase "Yes, no, toaster". Where did it come from? What does it mean?
Well, my dear, it's a term used by Quebecois, regardless of their primary language. It's a stereotype for them to perceive the rest of Canada as French-illiterate, and only capable of speaking and understanding the words "oui, non, toasteur" (which, is mighty accurate, mind you). It's obviously been Anglicized for English speakers. So why did I use it? What does it mean? It's used in speech to make sure the listener's listening, and fully understands what you're saying to them. Kinda like the words "right?" and "yaknowhatimean?". Try it out next time. It's funny for people who know what it means (kinda like a province wide inside joke).
So how did I hear of this? Cadets. Just like where I hear everything else from. I had a CO (commanding officer, for the military illiterate) who is an Anglophone from Montreal. She had a tendency to ask us that question every time she asked for clarification. We were all quite confused by the phrase; we all thought the "toaster" part was to throw us off to make sure we were still listening. We all half expected her to change the noun to something else, like "marshmallows", or "stapler". Nope. She stuck with it. And then she told us the meaning, just like how I spoiled it to you.
My other blog is getting massively personal. I should probably change a thing or two about it. You know, it's funny. This blog acts as a watchdog for the other blog, while the other blog acts as a watch dog for this blog.
All of a sudden, this blog post also ended. Good night, and good hunting.
Ookay, lets go. That's right, two "o"'s. Because I'm cool rike that. Recently, I was involved in a match of Conquest Domination in BFTree. Heh. Big fucking tree. Oops, profanity. I just stole the virginity of your angelic eyes. How did he do? Well, initially, the dude was doing crap. Going 3-11 within 5 minutes of the game. Oh, and while we're on topic, the dude's name is gordonwilliams56. Just in case an admin is reading this. Avoid this man at all costs (if he is a man at all). He was last seen on one of BBF's servers. The sensible players on the server had a nice chat about the dude. Judging by his noobiness, we assumed that he was a total noob (Captain Obvious was there, obviously). The match was fairly equal, with both sides roughly equal in terms of tickets (give or take 3 to 5 tickets per side, but that's to be expected). Then, all of a sudden, the bottom ranked player on the other team headshots me. Now, I was not very concerned with this yet, since he's still at the bottom of the list. I was starting to have suspicions, though, as people started asking "is this dude a hacker?" throughout the open channel. I didn't think much for the next 5 minutes, as the two sides were still fairly even. However, I did do constant scoreboard checks to make sure our marked man was only a false positive. If only that were the case. About 7 minutes later, and being headshotted again by the same dude, I knew something was up. The dude went balls out in hacking, and we finished the match in a disaster. The next match was coming up, so I decided to try as hard as I can to make his life miserable. I knew that smoke and suppression have no effect on the dude. What could I do? All I could do was to try to win in another method: capping flags. This worked initially, and throughout the middle half of the match. But the dude kept suppressing our team with his insane headshotting "skills". Luckily, I managed to kill him a number of times while he was reloading (the dude was too noob to press the "2" key to switch weapons... hehe). By the end of the game, he went 111-10. I rage quitted by this point.
Why would a person pay money to automate a game? Where's the fun in that? I'll just get bored after 5 minutes (after the novelty wears off). Seriously, if I can't play a game well, I either learn to play, or I quit the game completely. Why would you let a bot do something that you can accomplish yourself? Where's the fun in that? What's your sense of accomplishment, hacker? Is it your massively huge KDR? Or is it your insane killstreak? Neither of those things matter in Battlefield. Please go back to COD and may Athe strike you down with thunder.
So, rant over. Not really a rant, just an after actions report (AARP). I might do more of those for the future. Kinda like fanfic, except with military terms and stuff. Interested? Yes, no, toaster?
Ahh, so the phrase "Yes, no, toaster". Where did it come from? What does it mean?
Well, my dear, it's a term used by Quebecois, regardless of their primary language. It's a stereotype for them to perceive the rest of Canada as French-illiterate, and only capable of speaking and understanding the words "oui, non, toasteur" (which, is mighty accurate, mind you). It's obviously been Anglicized for English speakers. So why did I use it? What does it mean? It's used in speech to make sure the listener's listening, and fully understands what you're saying to them. Kinda like the words "right?" and "yaknowhatimean?". Try it out next time. It's funny for people who know what it means (kinda like a province wide inside joke).
So how did I hear of this? Cadets. Just like where I hear everything else from. I had a CO (commanding officer, for the military illiterate) who is an Anglophone from Montreal. She had a tendency to ask us that question every time she asked for clarification. We were all quite confused by the phrase; we all thought the "toaster" part was to throw us off to make sure we were still listening. We all half expected her to change the noun to something else, like "marshmallows", or "stapler". Nope. She stuck with it. And then she told us the meaning, just like how I spoiled it to you.
My other blog is getting massively personal. I should probably change a thing or two about it. You know, it's funny. This blog acts as a watchdog for the other blog, while the other blog acts as a watch dog for this blog.
All of a sudden, this blog post also ended. Good night, and good hunting.
Monday, 25 March 2013
Woah, there, I got too close. Should back off for a moment. And I won't clarify what I meant by those words. Only I will understand. I'll keep it contextually ambiguous by mentioning armoured vehicles I'll mention it on my other brog, then.
NO, ARMOURED IS SPELLED CORRECTLY, YOU YANKEE BASTARD!
/rant. LOL jokes. My rant's not over. At least, it's over for the Americans. Time for the French Canadians to take a beating.
JOKES AGAIN! You think I'll go around spewing hatred all over the place? THIS AIN'T MEIN KAMPF, BEH BEE!
So, the highlight of this week was probably my weekend. Spent a weekend in some French town (city? screw it. They're all called "ville"s anyways. What a vile way to call a city). I'll gradually release the stories over time. We'll start off with one of my old camp stories.
My friend (we'll call him by his callsign... Juliet *snicker*) and I were chilling in the sweating heat of the Bagotville summer day. Sierra (our other friend, obviously a callsign as well) was off somewhere reading his Tom Clancy book. It's gotten so hot that our fire detector's gone off twice already the day before because of (now, I'm just guessing here) the humidity. What does humidity have to do with anything, you ask? I have no idea. But the point was, it was raining so damn hard the night before, and it was so damn hot, that the entire base was saturated beyond a bronze-leaguer trying to macro. Our flight sergeant (Zulu) came along, assembled our flight (Charlie 4, Kiowa Flight), and told us to change for swimming (but to wear our PT gear over all that crap. We did as we were told, and we marched down to the parade square. The parade square is a flat, asphalt (is it asphalt? it was pink/red/thingish) with numerous benches and planes on it.
They placed car wash water pipes all around the place. Heck, they also had water balloons everywhere. Oh? What's that? You don't know what's a car wash water pipe? Think a rectangular structure made of a pipe, with holes poking out so water can spew out and wash a car. Yeah, they had that at the parade square.The water's pretty pressurized, and it's cold as hell. So you know what me and my friends did? We gathered up about 30 other cadets, and formed an impromptu flight. We slow marched through the 5 car wash gates. In slow march. SLOW MARCH. Meaning a step was taken every second, at a tempo of 60 steps per foot per minute. You actually feel like a car, with the ice cold water spraying at you at a high velocity. Not only that, but people started throwing water balloons at us, and giant beach balls pummeled the area like artillery shells.
This is probably one of my more formal posts. Shall I continue with more camp stories? Or more about my laifu?
NO, ARMOURED IS SPELLED CORRECTLY, YOU YANKEE BASTARD!
/rant. LOL jokes. My rant's not over. At least, it's over for the Americans. Time for the French Canadians to take a beating.
JOKES AGAIN! You think I'll go around spewing hatred all over the place? THIS AIN'T MEIN KAMPF, BEH BEE!
So, the highlight of this week was probably my weekend. Spent a weekend in some French town (city? screw it. They're all called "ville"s anyways. What a vile way to call a city). I'll gradually release the stories over time. We'll start off with one of my old camp stories.
My friend (we'll call him by his callsign... Juliet *snicker*) and I were chilling in the sweating heat of the Bagotville summer day. Sierra (our other friend, obviously a callsign as well) was off somewhere reading his Tom Clancy book. It's gotten so hot that our fire detector's gone off twice already the day before because of (now, I'm just guessing here) the humidity. What does humidity have to do with anything, you ask? I have no idea. But the point was, it was raining so damn hard the night before, and it was so damn hot, that the entire base was saturated beyond a bronze-leaguer trying to macro. Our flight sergeant (Zulu) came along, assembled our flight (Charlie 4, Kiowa Flight), and told us to change for swimming (but to wear our PT gear over all that crap. We did as we were told, and we marched down to the parade square. The parade square is a flat, asphalt (is it asphalt? it was pink/red/thingish) with numerous benches and planes on it.
They placed car wash water pipes all around the place. Heck, they also had water balloons everywhere. Oh? What's that? You don't know what's a car wash water pipe? Think a rectangular structure made of a pipe, with holes poking out so water can spew out and wash a car. Yeah, they had that at the parade square.The water's pretty pressurized, and it's cold as hell. So you know what me and my friends did? We gathered up about 30 other cadets, and formed an impromptu flight. We slow marched through the 5 car wash gates. In slow march. SLOW MARCH. Meaning a step was taken every second, at a tempo of 60 steps per foot per minute. You actually feel like a car, with the ice cold water spraying at you at a high velocity. Not only that, but people started throwing water balloons at us, and giant beach balls pummeled the area like artillery shells.
This is probably one of my more formal posts. Shall I continue with more camp stories? Or more about my laifu?
Sunday, 17 March 2013
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